


Paying with Love Tonight

by stepquietly



Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Escorts, Crack, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepquietly/pseuds/stepquietly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey, man. You called?” the guy says, and Michael isn’t proud of what he’s about to do.</p><p>(AKA The Lochte fail!escort fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying with Love Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [im_not_a_lizard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_not_a_lizard/gifts), [bessyboo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bessyboo/gifts).



> This fic is for bessyboo, as without her horrified response I likely wouldn't have written the twitterfic, and for im_not_a_lizard, who struck a deal with me to get it finished. You know what you gotta do now, lady.
> 
> Thanks go to thefourthvine, missmollyetc and derryderrydown for various beta efforts.

“Hey, man. You called?” the guy says, and Michael isn’t proud of what he’s about to do.

It’s too late to back out now though. Michael’s way past trying to make excuses for himself and is currently just trying to figure out ways not to get caught. Debs would kill him. Heck, his agent would _kill_ him. And seriously, the idea of Peter finding out is terrifying because he’s already threatened in the past to rip Michael’s entrails out and justify it as reduced weight in the water if he ever catches even a whiff of another scandal after the whole weed thing.

Maybe that was supposed to be reassuring or maybe it was supposed to keep him on the straight and narrow, but circumstances being what they are, instead it’s resulted in Michael printing out the least skeezy non-disclosure agreement he could find on the internet and praying to every deity he can name that it holds up in court if this ever goes public. If not, well, Peter’s really going to be the least of his problems.

On the somewhat plus side, the guy’s not terrible looking. He’s got one of those baby faces going, vaguely Channing Tatum-ish, and from what Michael can see of his body, the dude works out. The backwards baseball cap and shiny grill throw him for a second, but clearly guys who call escort hotlines can’t be choosers.

Oh god, Michael’s one of those guys now.

He’s back in a shame spiral when the guy says, “This is the place, right? You Mike for the boyfriend experience?” He’s smiling and laidback, as if this is totally normal, which it must be for him, and Michael finds himself calming a little. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat, “yeah. Hi. Come on in.”

The guy grins at him and takes his sunglasses off to stick in the front of his t-shirt, and Michael can see the laugh lines fanning out around his blue eyes. “Cool. I’m Ryan.” He doesn’t bother to come in but cranes his head around the doorframe to check the house out.

“Hi, Ryan,” Michael says awkwardly. He swings the door open even farther but Ryan makes no effort to enter the house. Michael has a moment where he wonders if he’s supposed to reassure him that he’s really not a serial killer or produce a pledge to that effect or something. It’s something he hasn’t ever had to think about offering before, which is reminding him in a terrible way that he needs to stop marathoning those Law and Order episodes.

“Sweet place,” Ryan says, then jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Can you hang on for a sec? I’ll just go get my gear from the car and we’ll get started.”

Michael nods dumbly, and Ryan laughs and lightly punches his shoulder before jogging back to his car. Michael watches as he unlocks the trunk and pulls out a giant pizza box and a six pack of Coors.

Ryan jogs back and hands them over. “Dude, I got half veggie and half double pepperoni but say the word and we can just mash them up and make pizza slice sandwiches. Oh, and the beer’s probably not really cold anymore so you might wanna put it in the fridge.”

Michael stares. This isn’t what he was expecting at all.

Ryan must read the confusion on his face ‘cause he laughs. “Don’t worry, I got this. All part of the boyfriend package.” Then he leans into the doorway and wiggles his eyebrows. “Well, _one_ of the packages, at least.”

Michael stares at him for a second before he turns abruptly and flees to the kitchen. He unloads the pizza box and the beer onto the counter, then has to hunch over onto his elbows next to them and freak out a little.

“Dude. Mike. You got Xbox?” he hears from the living room. “’Cause that’s foreplay, man.”

“What?” Michael calls back, flustered. He grabs two of the beers and hurries back out to the living room just in time to see Ryan load up Call of Duty 2 on his Xbox.

“Come on down,” Ryan says, patting the sofa cushion next to him, where Michael’s second controller is now placed, “winner gets a roll of this.” He pulls a small baggie out of his pocket and shows Michael the two joints in it. “It’s quality shit.”

Michael’s pretty sure none of this is normal. Ninety-nine percent sure. Maybe more.

Except Ryan’s the professional here and Michael’s a newbie, so maybe this is just how stuff works and Pretty Woman is actually some sort of escort template. You take out the shopping and add in Call of Duty and weed and it’s pretty much the same thing.

Michael is Richard Gere in this scenario.

Michael is _Richard fucking Gere_.

He’s never felt so wrong.

“You chicken?” Ryan puts the baggie away and starts to flap his bent arms while making clucking noises. Michael stares in horror because this is probably the least sexy thing he’s ever imagined an escort doing, and also, fuck it, he isn’t a damn chicken.

“You’re on,” he mutters, grabs the controller, and logs in.

Ryan laughs, loud and braying, and shoves into his side with his shoulder. “Jeah,” he crows.

“Huh?”

“Jeah! It’s spelled J-E-A-H. If you say it like how it’s spelled it’s ‘jee-ah.’ But, that’s boring; no one wants to hear that. So you have to really put that emphasis on that ‘J.’ And then the ‘A-H’ kinda just flows.” He leans in, eyes sparkling, thighs spread so his shorts show off his thighs and bulge.

“Ooookay.” Michael is maybe horrified. Not that he hasn’t been dreading the whole impersonal getting right to the sex thing – hence the “whole boyfriend experience” – but this is actually weirder. On the plus side, Ryan’s pretty built and cute, and he brought weed and pizza. There is the whole grill situation, but all in all, things could be worse. It could be that he’s into it. His life is just that fucking ridiculous.

Despite his doubts, it actually goes really well. They end up hanging out and playing a few rounds while they light up and get toasted. Then Ryan unzips Michael’s pants, pulls out a condom, and rolls it on.

“Wrap it trap it,” he says, and before Michael can really parse that he pops his grill out and goes to fucking town on Michael’s dick.

There’s a lot of tongue and moaning, some fucking obscene noises, and more than a few of them are coming out of him. Fuck, it feels good.

They haven’t talked about protocol or anything, so Michael isn’t sure if he’s supposed to really do much other than sit there and take it. It could be that this is like strip club rules where stuff happens to you and you don’t touch the person, or maybe he’s supposed to touch, but who even knows when his brains are basically being vacuumed out his dick.

He hesitantly runs his hands through the guy’s hair and back towards his ear, just trying shit out, and watches him shudder. Ryan flicks those blue eyes up to meet Michael’s gaze before he swallows his way all the fuck down again. And Michael’s gone, just like that, coming his goddamn brains out.

Ryan works him through it, long sucks around the condom before he pulls back and fumbles with it, tongue poking through his teeth while he works the end into a knot.

“Holy shit,” Michael breathes, toes still tingling, though it’s a toss-up whether that’s the weed or the orgasm.

Ryan leaves the condom on the low table next to the couch and gets back into Michael’s space, climbing into his lap and grinding down while he kisses him, sloppy and wet. He still tastes of latex and weed, and it’s all probably terrible hooker etiquette, but Michael’s too baked and too fucking into it to care. He licks the taste out of Ryan’s mouth and nearly dislocates his wrist trying to give him a fancy handjob.

“Shit, this is like ninja cock,” Ryan whispers, shoving his cock haphazardly over Michael’s fist and into his thigh.

“What?” Michael asks, confused. Ryan just grimaces and comes all over his lap.

Michael collapses back into the couch cushions. He figures his clothes are a wash anyway and wipes his hand off on his shirt. His dick is still hanging out.

“Mike. Bro. Awesome.” Ryan holds out his fist. Michael grimaces but bumps it. His eyes are already falling shut, the pot making him dopey.

He rallies long enough to fetch his wallet and pay Ryan. Then Michael walks him to the door, where they end up making out, pressed up against the hallway table that’s there for keys and mail. Ryan grabs two handfuls of Michael’s ass and they basically have round two all over Michael’s entryway.

“I think I’m just going to sleep here,” he groans. Ryan cackles and grabs his stuff. Then he pauses. “Hey Mike, gimme your phone.”

Michael doesn’t even really think about it. He just pulls his phone out of his pocket – how is his phone even still in his pocket? This fucking iPhone shit is durable as fuck – and hands it over. Ryan futzes with it for a minute or so and then hands it back. “You’ve got my number now.”

Michael closes his eyes and writhes a bit against the tile. “Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy,” he warbles, “but here’s my number, I’m an escort, baby.” He giggles, wheezing and holding his sides.

Ryan snorts out a laugh. “Dude, you’re so fucking cool. We seriously need to do this again.” He leans down and Michael stretches up so they can kiss one more time, sloppy and tired, no real intent behind it but affection.

“Peace out, bro,” Ryan calls, and then he’s out the door.

* * *

 

It’s not until Michael opens his eyes the next morning to see a tied-off condom full of come on his table that the awkward shame really hits.

“Ugh,” he mutters, scratching flakes of the guy – Ryan’s – come off his hips. His head throbs, reminding him that he hasn’t really done any of the drinking or smoking thing in a bit.

He’s hauling himself off the couch to go get water when his eyes fall on the printout on the table.

“No,” he whispers to himself, because he totally forgot to get Ryan to sign the non-disclosure. “Oh god, no.” He clutches his hair in horror for a moment before immediately stopping because that shit does not fly with a hangover, Jesus.

Desperation drives him to his laptop, where he wastes an hour refreshing all the sports gossip websites while frantically googling various versions of “Ryan escort weed pizza CoD.” When none of that works, he gives up and calls Hilary for advice.

“ _Why are you telling me any of this_?” she shrieks.

Michael says miserably, “Can you imagine me asking Debs for help with this? I’d have to talk about sex! Oh god, I’d have to talk about paying for it and getting high and doing it on the couch she bought me.”

There’s horrified silence on the other end of the line. “Okay, yeah. You really can’t do that,” Hilary says. “What about Peter? Don’t you pay your agent to deal with this stuff?”

There’s a pause where Michael pictures telling Peter any of this. Peter, who will be disappointed in him and also probably threaten to cut his balls off with a rusty saw for being so irresponsible.

“Wait, don’t do that either,” she says after a pause, sounding like she’s had the same thought. Michael nods gratefully, then regrets it when that makes his headache flare up again.

“Did you use protection?”

“Oh god.” Michael’s just waiting for some benevolent deity to strike him dead now.

“I needed to ask. Anyway, totally ignoring the fact that you need hookers,” Hilary says, her voice echoing her horror, “it sounds like he was a total weirdo. Why did you even let him stay?”

Michael shrugs, then remembers that she can’t see him. “He brought weed? And he wasn't terrible at CoD?” he says vaguely as he hunts out aspirin and Gatorade.

“I have no response to that,” she mutters. “None at all.”

Michael fights the urge to defend his honour because there’s just some things you don’t tell your sister, and the length of time Ryan could hold his breath is sort of one of them. Some things about your personal escort you keep private. “It’s been a while,” he offers instead, as the world’s lamest excuse.

“Ugh,” she says. Then, reluctantly, “why don’t you just call the service and get his number again? You can ask him to come over and deal with it then.”

Michael has a second of complete blankness before he leans his head against the wall and fights not to thump it there a bunch of times. He totally has Ryan’s number in the very phone he used to call Hilary and it never even occurred to him to use it; he could’ve spared himself this entire conversation.

“Thanks,” he forces out.

She groans. “Don’t thank me yet. The dude could totally want a payout. Also, next time anything like this happens, I’m telling Debs.”

Michael cringes. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” The silence of a disconnected call is his only answer.

He hang up and starts to scroll through his phone contacts looking for Ryan. Except it’s not there. And it’s not under the name of the company Michael used last night, or under H for hooker or E for escort. He’s actually starting to panic all over again when he passes ‘Reezy’ in his contact list. It’s not a name he recognises.

Michael fights the urge not to judge himself even more than he already does for sleeping with someone who voluntarily calls himself Reezy. Instead he hits call and waits for Ryan to pick up.

“Hey,” a voice answers, and Michael jumps in, “Ryan? From last night?”

“Mike!” Ryan sounds pleased. “Bro, faster than the 24 hour rule.”

“What?” Michael doesn’t have time to figure that out. “No, wait, don’t explain. Just. Dude, could you come by the house again today? I forgot to go over some stuff last night.” He shuffles the edges of the papers awkwardly, lining them up on the coffee table so he won’t forget them again this time.

“Sweet. Sexy date at eight.” And then Michael’s sputtering out a denial but he’s already just listening to a blank silence again.

It’s too much trouble to call Ryan back and clarify that Michael just wants him to come over for paperwork so that he can’t ruin his career – and actually trying to spell that out might make it worse – so Michael just drops his phone among the cushions and collapses back into couch’s embrace for a nap.

* * *

 

At 7.30, someone’s at the door. Michael has to haul himself off the couch in a hurry because the asshole at the buzzer just won’t let up. The shrill ringing makes his head hurt.

He yanks open the door, ready to yell at whoever’s there, but ends up confronting Ryan. Ryan, who’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt, a backwards baseball cap, and shimmery green sneakers. And carrying a skateboard.

“What?” Michael manages, because no, really, what?

“Hey, bro,” Ryan says, “thought I’d bring my other ride tonight, actually got me here faster.” He twirls the skateboard on its back wheels.

“Your,” Michael has to swallow. “Your other ride?”

“Better than a car in this traffic, am I right?” Ryan shoots him a goofy, wry smile. “Gets me anywhere early.” Then he lets the skateboard clatter back down and digs in his pocket to pull out a small baggie. “So, what’s for tonight? Rematch? I brought the good stuff.” He holds the baggie up high and puts his other hand out for a high five. “You got beer?”

Michael slaps it on autopilot, still processing Ryan’s... everything. “I didn’t really,” he starts awkwardly, “I mean, I have some papers for you? I didn’t mean to order another night, though I’m happy to pay you for your –”

Ryan interrupts by leaning in and kissing him, sloppy and wet. And Michael is so happy not to be talking any more that he just goes with it, yanks Ryan in and shuts the door.

* * *

 

“So you got it signed this time?” Hilary asks, and Michael looks at the sad, crumpled pile of documents. There’s at least one page with a smear of jizz on it, and at least two pages are either in the kitchen or in the bedroom.

“I think so?” he says doubtfully. He certainly remembers Ryan signing something, anyway. There’s also a giant trail of pen down his side underlining the words ‘Lochte wuz here,’ so there was definitely a pen involved at some point.

She sighs.

* * *

 

Technically that should be the end of it. Except that the next weekend finds Michael opening the door to Ryan again.

“Um,” he says, “I’m pretty sure I didn’t order another night.”

Ryan shoots him a confused look. “Dude, no,” he says, “It’s the ‘boyfriend experience?’ Gotta treat you all nice on the weekends.”

Michael does not understand this.

“Aren’t you supposed to wait for me to call, though?” he mutters, confused, as Ryan pushes past him into the house. Michael’s only got the door open a bit, so Ryan has to ease his way in between Michael and the door, pressing up all along Michael’s front, warm and muscular.

Ryan looks at him and Michael’s struck again by how blue his eyes are. There’s a lot of eyes and muscles going on here, really. “It’s about committing. Jump off and make sure to land feet first,” he says solemnly.

“We’re committing?” Michael’s so confused and turned on. And honestly? A little worried.

Ryan laughs. “You gotta put it down for a good time.” Which doesn’t actually explain anything.

Michael's not sure how it happens, but two hours later he's stripped down to his boxers on the couch, lazily making out with his ex(?)-escort to Jay-Z’s greatest hits. Ryan's actually humping him to the beat and trying to mouth the words _while_ kissing him, and Michael's pretty sure this level of accuracy isn't usually present among people in the escort business.

He doesn’t have many brain cells left to help him consider it, though, because Ryan’s kissing his way across Michael’s cheek and mouthing at his jaw line. Then he trails a bunch of sucking, nipping kisses along his neck and down to his collarbone. He’s got two handfuls of Michael’s ass, yanking Michael up into him even as he grinds down, and Michael’s already feeling the tightening in his balls when Ryan whisper-sings, “Let me run _this_ town tonight?” and pushes a finger into the cotton over his hole.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Michael wheezes, high-pitched, and comes.

“Now you’re getting it,” Ryan says encouragingly, and kisses Michael through his sputtering.

* * *

 

“Tell me you didn't hire him again,” Hilary hisses down the line when he calls her in the morning. “Do you have a problem?”

“No! Now pay attention.” Michael can only hide in the bathroom from his maybe-hooker for so long, “What do you normally make your boyfriend in the morning? Are we talking eggs and toast here? Bacon? What?” He does a quick sniff test of his breath and winces. Then he shifts and winces again, thighs and ass protesting the movement.

“Mike! Mike. Please, please tell me you don't actually think you're dating your escort. Like, do I need to come down there? Do you need an intervention?” There’s the sound of things being thumped and pushed together. “I’m packing a bag.”

Michael takes his phone away from his ear so he can glare at it, for all the good that does. “No!” he says “It’s not like that. We’re doing something and it’s part of the routine and I’d like to get it right, okay?” Jesus, there’s really no way to salvage this conversation. He leans his forehead against the cool tile wall and tries not to listen to the sheer amount of silent judgment emanating across the phone line right now. “I’m not paying him now. Really. I’m okay.”

Eventually, there’s a deep sigh on the other end of the line. “I'm not sure which of you is worse. Put out some cereal or whatever. I've never done jack for my morning-afters. I don't know; how much do you like this guy?”

Michael thinks back to the way Ryan’s after-sex etiquette involved weird comments about the Project Runway repeat last night while getting cookie crumbs all over Michael’s sheets and says, “You’re right, cereal it is.”

“Jesus,” Hilary says and then hangs up.

Michael sighs and stares at himself in the mirror. He’s got some intense bed-head happening, and there’s a bunch of patchy hickeys on his throat. “Ugh,” he mutters, then turns the faucet on to duck his head under it. Hair tamed, he towels off and brushes his teeth.

Once he emerges from the bathroom, he does his best to look innocent and not like he was in there asking for advice on how to impress his escort during their morning after. Then he pauses, because there’s a distinct smell of eggs and bacon.

Sure enough, when he heads into the kitchen, Ryan’s setting up two plates while singing Lil’ Wayne. “I’m gonna take that and take this, Breakfast yes, let’s eat, wipe yo mouth when you finished,” he raps, shaking the Westside sign with one hand and salting the eggs with the other. He looks up to see Michael, grins so Michael can see that he’s got another shiny grill in, though Michael has no idea where he got it from. “Holla holla, it’s the best time of the day.”

Michael awkwardly surveys the mess of pans in the sink and the yolky mess of sunny-side-up eggs and bacon. “This looks nice?” he says, voice rising at the end to make it kind of a question.

Ryan just laughs. “Breakfast meat is a breakfast treat,” and comes around the kitchen counter to kiss Michael, slow and sweet.

“Whoa,” Michael says, pulling back mid-kiss. “Dude, I’ve got some mouthwash if you need it.”

Ryan looks abashed. “Sorry, bro. I forget sometimes. You know, you do some weed, and you have a dog and there’s hair everywhere and that funky smell, and you start to let things slide so maybe half the weed is dog hair but hey, it lights up anyway, am I right?”

He slips off to make use of the facilities and leaves Michael to ponder whether or not he’s been getting high off dog hair this entire time. The idea is sort of terrible and Michael has the vague urge to brush his teeth again even though it’s been a week since they got high together.

Later, after Ryan comes back and Michael insists on the grill being put away, they make out some against the kitchen island. Ryan sits on one of the barstools and Michael towers over him, holds his face still so he can lick his way into Ryan’s mouth, lip at his neck. Ryan’s pliant this morning, relaxing into every kiss, so it’s the sort of meandering, no-promises kissing that doesn’t have to really go anywhere.

It’s actually really nice, Michael realises. There’s something awesome about how easy this seems, even if it’s all an act. Ryan’s clearly great at what he does despite his somewhat odd approach and Michael wouldn’t be surprised if Ryan is actually some sort of hooker genius.

Eventually Ryan smiles at him, soft and fond, and says, “We should go to the dog park today. Hang with Carter, you know? Get in some time with all the hot dog moms.”

Michael’s nodding almost before he thinks, determined to keep that expression on Ryan’s face. “Who’s Carter?” Michael wonders vaguely whether he’s going to be meeting Ryan’s pimp today, something of that nature. It’s a worrying thought. He starts in on his eggs as he thinks that over.

“Bro dog.” Ryan nods sagely and grabs the last of the bacon.

Michael sighs. “I’m not cool enough for your slang, man. Who’s Carter?”

Ryan cackles and punches his shoulder. “My dog. Named for the best rapper in the world and it shows ‘cause dude is the best dog in the world.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and suddenly Michael’s looking at about fifty instagrammed pictures of a Doberman sleeping and chasing a ball, and, worryingly, one in which the dog’s wearing two pairs of sneakers and a pair of sunglasses, tongue hanging out happily.

“Carter knows where it’s at,” Ryan tells him, still absorbed in looking at the pictures over his shoulder. “And where it’s at should be the dog park. A bro’s gotta walk his little man.”

Mike looks at him for a really long time, his face utterly expressionless, before he sighs, long and loud, because fuck it, he's got nothing else to do anyway and hot ladies at the park does sound good.

“Okay,” he says, and goes to get some shoes on.

“Jeah!”

* * *

 

“Hey, so, this was nice,” Ryan tells him later, after he and Michael have walked Carter. They’re standing outside an old building fairly close to the local university campus. “This is me.” He gestures with his keys to the lock and points to a window on the second floor. “See that one, that’s me.”

“Cool. Cool.” Michael shuffles his feet, awkward. He’s not sure precisely what he’s supposed to say. “I had a good time. Thanks for taking me out. I haven’t --” he gestures around and then to himself “-- for a bit, so yeah. This was good.”

Ryan laughs, small and awkward, and then they’re both leaning in, small, quick kisses like they can’t quite stop, slowly deepening into longer, slower kisses, Michael easing his tongue into Ryan’s mouth. Ryan’s got his hands tucked into the back of Michael’s pockets, pulling him close, and the quiet soreness that Michael’s been feeling all day flares up his spine, reminds him of last night. His cock starts to get hard, tenting the front of his shorts, and he pushes his hands up under Ryan’s shirt, spans his fingers over his back and shoulders, and pulls him in closer.

Then Ryan pulls away and says, “Hey” in a sharp voice. Michael has a second to wonder what he’s done when Ryan continues, “Don’t yank on a dude’s arm when he’s getting hot and heavy, man. That’s not in the bro code.” And Michael looks down to see Carter sitting, looking cowed, tail still slowly wagging as if he’s hoping the attention will turn affectionate now.

“Sorry,” Ryan says, looking coy. “Carter’s probably jealous of all this hot action.” He runs his thumb along Michael’s lower lip, and Michael decides to just go for it, bites down lightly and then licks it with his tongue.

Ryan’s eyes flare. “Shit.” He starts patting down his pockets. “Okay. Okay. You’re coming up, right?” Michael’s already nodding, leaning in to kiss him again, arms bracketing Ryan against the door. And maybe they don’t find the key for a while, but that’s okay.

* * *

 

Michael opens his eyes to a bright room and an empty bed. Well, empty for a given value of the term, since there’s clothes scattered across the bottom, and what feels like a dog bone wedged under his chest. Ryan’s across the room, sitting on an old beanbag and looking upset, gaze fixed on his phone.

“Hey,” his voice cracks. He has to clear his throat and try again. “Morning.”

Ryan looks up and smiles, but it’s a poor attempt at best. He’s hunched in so he’s holding the phone right above his face, and his eyes keep flicking between the screen and Michael.

“You okay?” Michael pushes upright and shoves the dog bone off the bed. It thunks to the floor and there’s a sudden spate of joyful barking from outside the door in response; Carter probably recognises the sound.

Ryan sighs and heaves himself upright, shoves his phone in his pocket, and walks over to grab the bone. Then he opens the door enough for an excited Carter to wedge his head in.

“Hey, bro, here you go,” he says, fake excited, and throws the bone. Michael can hear Carter’s nails skittering across the floor outside and his barking moving further away.

Ryan rubs his eyes and leans his forehead against the door. “I got fired,” he mumbles.

“Come again?” Michael’s not precisely sure what’s happening.

Ryan comes over to sit on the bed by Michael’s hip. “Dude, the lady at the agency where I work was all, ‘You need to have more than one client to work here,’ and, ‘You can’t just give out a freebie,’ and talking about real commitment.” He looks distraught at the idea of his commitment being questioned. “And I tried to tell her that I was really committed, that I really thought about it but she didn’t want to hear it. And then she fired me.” He clenches his fists on his knee and Michael finds he’s moving on autopilot, hand coming up to rub Ryan’s back as soothingly as he can.

“It’s okay,” he says, awkward. “People get fired sometimes. Don’t worry, you’ll find something else.” It’s the only thing he can think of to say.

Ryan turns his head to look at him. “But I mean, you wanted me to be your boyfriend and I was, right?” He looks indignant. “You can’t just become someone’s boyfriend and then cheat on them. That’s totally whack.”

There’s something terrible going on in Michael’s head; suddenly things are starting to make sense. And, wow, Hilary is going to either kill him or die laughing because Michael is totally dating his escort.

“Isn’t it?” Ryan’s jaw is clenched, and this close Michael can see the light gold of his stubble coming in.

He chokes a little but he manages to say, “No, cheating isn’t cool.” Because fuck this, if they’re going to date, monogamy’s probably a good place to start.

Ryan looks satisfied. “Jeah! That lady doesn’t know anything.” Then, hesitant, he reaches over and grabs one of Michael’s hands, rubs his thumb over the knuckles. “You’re sure?” he asks, earnest. “I don’t really have a job now. I mean, it wasn’t a great job but, like, you can’t walk a straight line if the line is crooked, you know?”

Michael snorts because this is the first thing Ryan’s said all month that makes any sort of sense. “Dude, I let you put your dick in my ass last night. I’ve smoked your shitty dog weed. Trust me when I say, we’re good.”

“You’re in?” Ryan’s grinning already, staring down at their intertwined fingers.

And Michael just can’t resist the opening. “Jeah,” he says, and kisses him.


End file.
